Irritating Illnesses
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Sherlock's unwell. Neither John nor Sherlock seem to realize it. However, it won't take long before the truth is brought to light... What IS ailing Sherlock Holmes? ON HIATUS.
1. Not Sick and Tired

**Irritating Illnesses**

Sherlock had been sitting at the countertop for the better part of five hours. He hadn't so much as shifted position within that time, his eyes locked on the lens in his microscope. He was working on an experiment- critical, although not for a case- and had _finally_ managed to get the correct reaction. It had taken far too long, too many error-fraught test runs and even more slow reaction time, but the correct reaction was halfway finished.

He shifted slightly, replacing his previous position for something more comfortable. His neck had a crick in it, his back was aching, and his arms were numb from lack of use.

Sherlock stubbornly ignored it, keeping his gaze fixed on the reaction happening under the microscope.

Ten minutes later, he sat up a little straighter, trying to inconspicuously crack his back without taking his eyes off the experiment. It accomplished nothing but sending little shockwaves of pain through his body.

He resisted the urge to groan, but permitted an annoyed sigh.

Stupid transport.

He kept his eyes on the experiment.

It was just nearly an hour later that a small tickle started in his throat. He tried to ignore it to the best of his ability, swallowing reflexively to wash the irritate away. Saliva had no effect, so when the tickle got demanding, he cleared his throat.

The tickle only got worse over the period of another ten or so minutes and, although he tried clearing his throat again, nothing seemed to help it.

Thankfully, his experiment had finally finished its reaction, and he hurriedly scrawled down some notes in accompaniment, before sliding to his feet.

He stretched his arms above his head, causing his back to crack and pop. He wrung his hands together, snapping his knuckles, raising his hand to his mouth as he yawned. It was just past seven o' clock, he noted, and he was feeling the exhaustion from the past five days with little sleep.

"Finally tired?"

Sherlock glanced up towards the half-closed kitchen doors, noticing John leaning against one of them.

"I heard you moving about, figured you must have tore yourself away from your pressing experiment." John's voice was full of sarcasm.

Sherlock only turned away, stifling another yawn, as he prepared to put the kettle on.

"I'll take that as a yes," John muttered. "Well, I'm turning in early, so long as you're finished with that experiment."

Sherlock waved him away, fumbling through the cabinet for a clean teacup. The tickle in his throat still hadn't gone away; it was, however, nothing that a good cup of tea wouldn't handle.

"So, you're still not talking, then. Nice." John pushed the door aside, striding into the kitchen. "Make me a cup of tea while you're at it, will you?" He strode by, heading down the hall.

"If you're going to have a cup of tea, there's no point in brushing your teeth. If you put sugar in it, it'll just replace the sugar content..." Sherlock said. He nearly flinched, however, when a path of pain tore up his throat like burning flames.

"Chamomile," was all John said in return, the solitary snap of the bathroom door closing punctuating the statement.

Really needing that cup of tea, Sherlock quickly rinsed out the teapot, added the leaves, and followed it with the water. He irritably placed the lid back on and stretched again. Picking up his notes, he carefully started to sort through the many scribbles he had jotted down during his experiment, but he found his interest was lacking with the post-experiment phase. He was exhausted, his throat was aching, and his body was still protesting its mistreatment from the past six and a half hours. He really just wanted to take his cup of tea and be off to bed, although a long soak in a very hot bath didn't sound terrible.

Finally, when the tea had brewed, he poured himself a cup and took a hurried drink. It did little to help the pain- in fact, the water was still quite hot- but when the initial pain of the water had worn off, it helped to settle the ache in his throat into a dull ache.

He sighed pleasantly before taking another sip.

"I thought you didn't like chamomile," John said as he walked back into the kitchen. He walked to the counter and poured himself his own cup of tea, pausing to breath in the vapours of the steam.

Sherlock gave a slight shrug. "It'll do." Pain once again flared in his throat and he took another gulp of his tea, one that didn't go unnoticed by John.

"You know," John said, sipping at his own tea, "if you wouldn't sit there like a lump for over six hours, you wouldn't be so thirsty when you finally remember that you're human."

"Hm," Sherlock said in lieu of a response. He took another drink before starting back to his bedroom. He felt sluggish; his feet felt heavy and his body wanted to take a nap, immediately. It wasn't uncommon. He often found himself exhausted at the end of a case or important experiment, 'unhealthily so', as John had once said. Sherlock didn't mind it.

"Goodnight to you, too," John said. Sherlock thought he sounded amused.

Sherlock waved a hand as a dismissive 'goodnight' as he trudged the distance to his warm, inviting bed.

* * *

**I must thank Storylover18 profusively for the idea for this fic. And I won't tell you all _the_ idea, either, because that will be revealed in later chapters! I'll just say that it's not a common cold. And there's not much to go on this chapter, but this is only the prologue!**

**Favs/follows/reviews are appreciated! Thank you!**


	2. Diagnosis

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed heavily, rubbing his arm. "What?"

"You keep scratching. Did you get poison ivy again?"

"What?" Sherlock scowled, noting that he was scratching his arm. "No."

"There's calamine in the bathroom."

"I said I don't have poison ivy," Sherlock retorted angrily.

"Okay, fine," John muttered.

Sherlock snorted, flipping through another few pages in the magazine. It took approximately ten minutes for his throat to start tickling again.

Resisting the urge to groan, he tucked his head more again his chest and held the magazine closer.

His throat won out not long after and he pressed his hand over his mouth to muffle the dry cough that had appeared last night.

"Okay, what's wrong?"

Sherlock glanced over at John. The doctor was staring at him; he'd put down his newspaper and was giving him his full attention.

"What's wrong with what?"

"You. You're coughing and, last night, you seemed like you were feeling achy or something. You never stretch. You never make yourself a cuppa during an experiment, never. And you're scratching, _again_."

Sherlock glanced down; he was indeed scratching his arm again.

"Something's going on, so tell me what."

"There's nothing wrong with me," Sherlock retorted.

"Just let me see your arm."

"No," Sherlock said stubbornly, carding his fingers through his hair and scratching his scalp. The strange phenomena that he was now experiencing was that, since John had mentioned itching and scratching, he was overly conscious of the itching and scratching. Why should it matter if he was scratching? Perhaps Mrs. Hudson bought different laundry detergent. (Even though Sherlock knew that she hadn't, John wouldn't notice.)

"Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Will you stop bothering me, then?"

"Yes," John replied.

"Fine," Sherlock said, grabbing the sleeve of his dressing gown and wrenching it up.

It was much to his surprise as anyone else's to find a rash starting to break out across the expanse of his arm.

"I thought you said you didn't get into poison ivy," John said, standing.

"I should know if I got into poison ivy," Sherlock said, raising his arm to eye level to examine the rash. "And I haven't even been anywhere to get poison ivy..."

He thought back to all of the crime scenes that he'd been at in the past week, week and a half. None of them had so much as a lawn, much less brush. Where could have he gotten into something like poison ivy?

Besides, it didn't really _look_ like poison ivy...

"Doesn't really look like poison ivy," John commented. Sherlock looked at him as the doctor carefully gripped Sherlock's arm to look at the rash himself. "No... but it itches, yeah?"

"Obviously."

"Is there- hang on..." John pulled carefully at the collar of Sherlock's dressing gown.

"What _are_ you doing?"

"There's more on your neck."

Sherlock frowned, raising his hand to rub at his neck. It was a bad decision; it immediately started to itch.

"Are you _sure_ you didn't go near poison ivy?"

Sherlock gave him an annoyed look, fixing the dressing gown's collar before letting his sleeve fall. "I would notice."

He coughed again just then, turning his head to cough into his sleeve.

"Wait, you've got a cough."

"_Obviously_," Sherlock repeated.

"And I thought you seemed like you were achy last night..." John suddenly leaned forward, pressing his hand to Sherlock's forehead. "You've got a fever..."

Sherlock shook his head, leaning away from John. "I am fine."

"You know what this sounds an awful lot like...?" John mused as Sherlock heard him return to his chair.

"Some inane illness that you think I have, obviously," Sherlock said, returning to his magazine.

"Inane... Well, it is childish; I'll give you that," John replied.

Sherlock could hear the barely concealed humour in his flatmate's voice.

Partly curious, but moreso annoyed, Sherlock once again looked away from the magazine.

"And what is it that you think I'm ill with?"

John smiled innocently. "Chicken pox."

Sherlock paused with his gaze halfway back to the magazine. _Chicken pox_? John thought that he had _chicken pox_?

Unfortunately, he had to admit that it seemed to fit the symptoms (that he knew of). He knew that the main symptom of chicken pox was an itching rash. He also recalled that there seemed to be some sort of fever associated with it, but other than that, Sherlock didn't know many of the symptoms. Mycroft had had it once while they had been children, and while Sherlock had deleted most of those memories, he could remember the smug satisfaction of watching Mycroft stumble around the house, covered with itchy red spots.

"Have you ever had chicken pox?" John asked, breaking Sherlock's train of thought.

Sherlock tried to think back. Mycroft had been ill with the chicken pox, Sherlock was sure, but he couldn't remember catching the sickness for himself. Their mum had been overly annoying during that week or so, keeping Mycroft and Sherlock apart as much as she could. Sherlock had been overjoyed; time away from his annoying older brother and his annoying older brother having to deal with the disgrace that was the ridiculous rash.

"Mycroft caught it from high school," Sherlock murmured, "but Mother kept he and I apart during the time that he was contagious..."

"So, you've never had chicken pox."

"I don't think so." Sherlock looked up. "What are the symptoms?"

"The rash and, well, a fever and everything that goes with it. Nausea, dizziness, aches and pains, dry cough..."

Sherlock frowned, his eyebrows knitting together in concentration. If he had chicken pox, where had he picked it up from? He hadn't been around anyone who had chicken pox-

Oh.

A case had taken them to the surgery last week... Perhaps someone had been sick with the illness while he had been there?

"Has anybody been into surgery with this?" Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock, I stopped working there months ago."

Sherlock was barely listening to John, though, seeing as how his mind was racing ahead with the situation at hand. Chicken pox. It was an illness that he had never experienced first hand- not that he ever wanted to experience illness, although he had gotten drunk on purpose once before, for the sake of a case, and the hangover had been sickeningly spectacular- and it was an illness that he knew little about (he knew little about most illness, unless they were deadly).

"John," he said, throwing his magazine onto the table and standing, "where's my laptop?"

John, who hadn't taken his eyes off of him, but who was still smiling like this was some hilarious joke, finally frowned. "Why would I know?"

"No matter," he said, having already crossed the room and picked up John's laptop.

"Sherlock!"

"Be quiet, John; I need to think."

"What? With my laptop? What are you even doing?"

"Research."

"On what?"

"Don't be daft; chicken pox."

Silence ensued for a moment, only broken by the erratic tapping from the keys as Sherlock typed.

John, sounding annoyed, broke it.

"Sherlock, no, this is not an experiment. You need to be resting." John sighed and picked up his newspaper again. "You're going to start feeling a lot worse, Sherlock, and you're going to be forced into resting. Take some paracetamol and absolutely no leaving the flat."

Sherlock dismissed John's words as soon as he heard them, his eyes intent on the computer screen.

* * *

**Oh, Sherlock's all 'this is Christmas!' right now. John's all 'You're going to realize what a pain this is'. Neither of them are going to have quite the relaxed attitude about it once the illness really starts to bother Sherlock. So, not the common cold, probably a story idea that's been used once or twice, but, the mystery illness has been revealed! (Again, thanks to Storylover18 for the wonderful idea.)**

**Thanks!**


	3. Oatmeal Isn't For Breakfast Anymore

Sherlock coughed.

"Don't cough on my laptop!"

John's voice broke the otherwise silence and there was the sound of footsteps. Sherlock barely had the split second to remove his fingers from the keyboard before John slammed his laptop closed.

"Go to bed!" John ordered. "You're sick and you look terrible!"

Sherlock scratched at his neck slightly. "I only look terrible because of these heinous spots."

"Do not scratch," John said, striding across the room to place his laptop under his chair. "It'll just leave scars."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and steepled his fingers together, looking towards the smiley face on the wall.

He wouldn't complain, he wouldn't give John the satisfaction, but everything was being so _annoying_. Everything itched! And no matter how much he scratched (which he was trying not to do), it didn't go away; it just got worse!

He also had the irritating cough, which he couldn't seem to kick, either. He clearly still had the fever, as he was shivering slightly, and there was the beginning of a headache beginning to gnaw at his temples.

He wouldn't admit it, but John was correct when he said that Sherlock looked terrible. Sherlock _felt_ terrible.

He would not admit that.

Instead, he had clung to his laptop and searched for anything that might help him understand this disease, that might help him get rid of it. Unfortunately, this seemed to be a perfect example of a waiting game illness, one that only went away with time. He could take paracetamol for the fever and there were various ointments and lotions that would help the vesicles that itched. Apparently, oatmeal also helped with the itch, but Sherlock was not keen on the idea of soaking in breakfast cereal.

He scratched his chest.

"Stop it," John grumbled.

"I can scratch if I want to," Sherlock replied, hauling himself to his feet. "Have you had chicken pox before, then?"

"Yeah. Harry and I had it in primary school," John said, rustling the newspaper. "It's not fun. Take my advice when I say you should be resting."

"I don't need to rest," Sherlock said flippantly, pouring himself a cup of tea.

"You _do_ need to rest, and stay hydrated. The fever will be all over the place thanks to the chicken pox, but you need to try and lower it."

Sherlock looked at John, taking a pointed sip of his tea.

"Hot tea is not going to help the fever." John sighed. "Please, just go to bed."

"It's only afternoon," Sherlock replied.

"You fall asleep at strange times, anyway. Stop trying to act like you're fine; I can see that you're not and this is _my_ niche, so I know what I'm talking about," John added quickly. "You're pale, there's creases on your forehead so I'm assuming that you have a headache, not to mention that you're still scratching."

Sherlock stopped scratching and picked up his tea cup again.

"And you look tired. So, please, go to _bed_."

"You won't stop complaining until I do, right?" Sherlock asked.

"Good, you're catching on. There's hope for you yet."

Sherlock only rolled his eyes and headed back to his bedroom.

* * *

Sleeping was dull.

Therefore, Sherlock didn't want to sleep unless it was imperative, and it wasn't. He might not feel like his usual self, but it certainly didn't mean he needed to sleep.

But, John had said to rest, to go to bed, and Sherlock _had_ followed those instructions.

He was sprawled out across the bed, his eyes scanning over the familiar words of Mary Shelley's most famous work. He flipped a page idly, sighing after arriving to the end of Chapter Fifteen. He glanced up, looking towards the window.

It was past afternoon now, and slowly sinking towards evening. It was getting progressively closer towards something that could be called night-time, bed-time even, but Sherlock hardly cared. Morning, noon, night... It didn't matter. He didn't want to sleep, so he wouldn't.

... But he _was_ tired.

After a few hours of silent reading, Sherlock found his eyelids drooping. He blinked hard and sank a little lower.

It didn't take long for his attention to deviate from the pages in the book. He rest the book against his chest, stretching slightly.

He really could have done with a cuppa, but he wouldn't dare ask John for it.

Sherlock sighed and rearranged his pillow, placing his arm over his eyes.

He didn't want to fall asleep. He was not going to fall asleep...

... and yet, when he opened his eyes again, it was eight in the morning.

Sherlock groaned quietly, picking up his book and dropping it onto the nightstand. The movement was meant with a rush of uncomfortableness- aches and pain radiating throughout his body- and he stopped moving. He took a deep breath, pushing himself into a sitting position carefully. Everything ached...

There was a dull throbbing gnawing at his temples. He pressed his fingers against them, rubbing them slightly. Headaches... Headaches were dull. And painful... And...

He coughed slightly, flinching. Pain spread from the motion, from his throat to irritating each ache that was pervading his body.

Sighing in irritation, Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck. Sleeping with his pillow propped up hadn't done anything great for his neck. He ran his fingers through his hair before, carefully, coaxing his body onto its feet.

He had just stood up when his neck started itching.

He slapped his hand against the back of his neck, rubbing it slightly. It was irritated and pain shot through it when he rubbed it. He must have been scratching it more than he thought...

Everything else seemed to want to follow the model of his neck, because the itch travelled. It started with his neck and spread to his scalp, sinking down to his chest and arms, torso and legs.

Shivering and sorely resisting the urge to scratch, Sherlock stumbled into the bathroom.

He could tell that he had a fever even before he took his temperature. His body was aching, his head was starting to pound, and he just felt... _freezing_.

This chicken pox lark wasn't so fun.

Sherlock found the thermometer and disinfected it, just in case, before placing it under his tongue. It only took a few seconds for the reading and the display read thirty-eight point five.

Sherlock sighed, powering the thermometer off.

"What a pain..." he murmured, looking at his reflection. His face was covered in spots, and he didn't even want to see the rest of his body. It was just... a tedious waste of time.

Sighing, Sherlock rubbed his forehead briefly before deciding to forget about the chicken pox and get on with his morning routine. He brushed his teeth and was just running a bath (he didn't feel like standing for a shower) when there was a slight knock against the bathroom door.

"Sherlock...?"

Sherlock immediately looked towards the bathroom door. "Yes?"

"Are you decent...?"

Sherlock tightened his dressing gown, flipping the collar up. "Yes."

The bathroom door opened and John peered in hesitantly. "I heard you running bath water, so I brought oatmeal."

"... Oatmeal."

"Yes, it helps with the itching."

"I know," Sherlock said. Helping the itch aside, Sherlock still wasn't particularly eager to bathe in cereal. It was just... gritty and nasty and rather seemed like it would have the consistency of bathing in a tub full of dirt.

"Here, then." John pressed the container of oatmeal against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock gripped it automatically, looking at it with disdain. "Only a scoop and don't have the water too hot and don't soak for an hour like you usually do."

"Fine," Sherlock muttered.

John left, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock was left alone, covered with spots and holding a container of oatmeal.


	4. How?

Sherlock coughed, covering his mouth with the blankets.

This was hell.

His cough had intensified- always staying dry, as a trademark of chicken pox- his head was pounding, his fever had gotten worse, his body ached, his throat was sore, and he was starting to feel just the slightest bit nauseous.

And the itch!

_Everything_ was itchy. Face, scalp, neck, back, chest- the list went on and on. And he tried, really tried, not to scratch, and even when he passed his hand over the itchy spot- not scratching!- it just itched worse. His clothing so much as brushing against one vesicle triggered a whole patch of itching and, as with any itch that did not get scratched, it drove Sherlock crazy. (And not many things drove Sherlock Holmes crazy. He drove many things crazy, but not the other way around.)

The oatmeal bath had helped... earlier. By this time, morning, afternoon, _and_ evening had passed; somehow, it had ended up being one in the morning again when Sherlock had woken up.

He'd had the bath, chanced breakfast, fell back asleep. He'd woke up in the afternoon, used the toilet, and fell back into bed.

Now, it was one in the morning again and _how_ had he slept an entire day away? He hadn't even been that tired!

He coughed again, clearing his throat. Pain seared with the action and Sherlock muffled his groan into the caccoon of blankets. He just wanted to go back to sleep... so why had his transport been so insistent on waking up?

Sherlock pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. His head was killing him...

Paracetamol. He could use some more paracetamol.

Rather having to coax his transport onto its feet, Sherlock stumbled to the bathroom with his sheet still around his shoulders. He found the paracetamol and quickly downed the correct dosage, staring in the mirror as he willed the medication to work quickly.

He had numerous red spots on his face, although a few of them were effectively hidden by his bangs. He looked more pale than usual and his hair was a terrible mess. He ran his fingers through the mop of curls, attempting to straighten it out, but it was tangled and a few dried flakes of oatmeal still stuck in it.

Sherlock sighed shakily, shivering as he stretched his neck to look at a cluster of red vesicles near his right ear. It was freezing. It was the fever, undoubtably, but it was too cold for Sherlock, for someone who never noticed the weather or temperature on a daily basis.

He shuffled back to his bedroom.

He had only just settled himself back under the blankets when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Groaning quietly, he hid under the blankets.

"Sherlock...?"

"... What?" he muttered, coughing again.

"You okay?"

"Don't you ever sleep..." Sherlock muttered, removing the blankets so he could squint towards John's figure in the doorway.

"Yes, but I happened to be awake and I heard you walking around... Thought I might as well ask how you were feeling."

Sherlock hesitated. He could tell John that he felt horrible and John would make it better. John _could_ help him; John was a doctor. But...

"I'm fine," he mumbled, pulling the blankets over his face again.

"I don't believe that, no matter what you say..." John murmured, and Sherlock found his blankets pulled away again. "Tell me your symptoms," John said, placing his hand on Sherlock's forehead.

"Cough... headache... cold, fever, itch," he muttered.

"Thanks for the detail..." John muttered. "You've taken medicine?"

Sherlock nodded slightly.

"The fever's a part of the illness and won't go away for a bit, but trying to make it low-grade is the best course of action..."

John left the room and returned, after a moment, with what Sherlock soon realized to be a cold compress and the thermometer.

"Have you taken your temperature lately?" John asked, powering up the thermometer.

"No."

"Okay."

John handed the thermometer to Sherlock.

Sherlock, too tired to argue, took it and placed it under his tongue. When it beeped after its few seconds of deviating between temperatures, it settled on what was soon to be found thirty-nine point three, John sighed.

"No wonder you look horrible," he said, pressing the compress more firmly over Sherlock's forehead. Cold water trickled down Sherlock's temples and he shivered. "You need to go back to sleep. Your fever's up and you should still be resting. Do you want anything else?"

"... Tea?" Sherlock asked.

"Uh..."

"... Juice?"

Sherlock could practically hear the smile in John's voice as the doctor said "right away".

Sherlock couldn't fathom John's willingness to help him. Sherlock couldn't fathom how John sounded so wide awake at one in the morning. Sherlock couldn't fathom how tired _he_ was. Sherlock couldn't fathom _how_ he had gone from oatmeal bath and annoyance to stuck in bed and feeling terribly sick.

_'That's chicken pox for you,'_ John would say. Sherlock wouldn't give John the satisfaction of being able to say it.

"Here," John said, handing Sherlock a glass.

Sherlock sat up carefully, taking the glass of what he quickly found to be apple juice. "Thanks..." He took a few sips of it, as much as he thought his stomach could handle right now, before handing it back to John.

"Go back to sleep... You're fever will be down later in the afternoon."

John was going to regret saying that, because one of the things he hated as a doctor, was accidentally lying to someone.

* * *

**Ominous atmosphere, much?**

**Thanks for your continued support and any continued favs/follows/reviews are appreciated! Thanks!**


	5. Warmth

Sherlock rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, shivering as he sank back against the wall.

The vomiting had started about an hour ago, on and off and after Sherlock had gulped down a bit of water with more paracetamol. Needless to say, paracetamol and water went down a lot more simply, and painlessly, than when it came back up.

"Water," John said from his perch of sitting on the side of the bathtub.

Sherlock groaned in exasperation, fumbling for the water bottle.

It wasn't continuous vomiting, so John had no reason to sit in the bathroom and watch Sherlock every time he scrabbled for the toilet. But, as a doctor, John _had_ been sitting in the bathroom and watching Sherlock every time he vomited, and tried to make sure he stayed hydrated.

Sherlock had just been nodding off when the contents of his stomach started rising again. Shivering, he leaned forward and gripped the toilet seat as the water forced its way back up.

"Sherlock..." John started, a moment after Sherlock had fallen back to his previous position of leaning against the wall.

"Don't," Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes.

John was going to say something about going to St. Barts, or visiting surgery, or something stupid like that.

"If you can't start keeping down water, you're going to _need_ to go to the hospital."

"I'm not going to spend the day in hospital," Sherlock grumbled. "Besides," he muttered, sitting up slightly, "I'm highly contagious."

"That's true, but you can also die from dehydration, so, if a hospital visit is what it takes..."

Sherlock swallowed, reopening his eyes. "I'll be fine."

He _would_ be fine, because he wasn't going to vomit anymore... As long as he could help it.

"Vomiting isn't a typical symptom, is it?" Sherlock asked, leaning back against the wall again. He didn't recall reading much, if anything, about vomiting. He rather wished it wasn't a symptom at all, but maybe he'd done something to upset his stomach. Eating, or lack thereof, for that matter.

"Not really, but the older you are when you get chicken pox, the worse it can affect you."

"Of course..." Sherlock mumbled.

"You need to go back to bed."

Sherlock shivered, clutching the edge of the counter. "Don't need to go back to bed..." He struggled to his feet, wincing at the pain that travelled through his body.

"If you're not going to bed, what exactly do you plan on doing?" John asked, as he stood as well.

Sherlock didn't respond. He didn't exactly know, but he would think of something. He was so tired of sleeping, and resting, and feeling generally useless...

"Go back to bed," John said quietly, his hand automatically going to Sherlock's shoulder when the detective stumbled.

Sherlock sighed. "Fine..."

Sherlock could sense John's hesitance without even looking at him. Even so, Sherlock didn't look back. He just stumbled the short distance to his bedroom and crawled into bed. Only then did he look at John.

"... What?" he mumbled, pulling the duvet closer.

"Nothing. You just usually don't agree with me," John stated, picking up the glass from the nightstand. "I'll get you some more apple juice. You need to keep hydrated."

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible, snuggling further into the blankets. John returned a few moments later, with the thermometer and the glass of juice. He sat the latter on the stand, handing the thermometer to him. Sherlock took it, powered it on, and placed it under his tongue.

His fever had gone up. He was sure. He wasn't sure what it had gone up to, but it had gone up and Sherlock wasn't thrilled.

"Thirty-nine five," John read aloud when he took it back. "It keeps rising."

"I can tell," Sherlock grumbled, closing his eyes.

"Go back to sleep," John said. "I'll get a cold compress for your forehead..."

"But I'm already cold," Sherlock groaned, pulling the duvet over his head. "I don't want a cold compress."

"You need one," John said. "And stop covering up your face. You know how a fever works; you don't need me to explain that your body is hot, even if-"

"Even if my mind is telling me otherwise," Sherlock said sullenly. "I know, John. Why do you think I hate being sick so much...?" He removed the blankets from his head, looking tiredly at John.

"Yeah, I know. Your mind betrays you," John replied, looking worried. "But you should be worried about your _body_, too, not just your mind."

"My mind's the most important..." Sherlock murmured, closing his eyes. He was cold and shivering and, oddly enough, he just wanted to sleep. He couldn't be miserable if he was asleep... even if he was tired of sleeping and he was annoyed by his body and itchy and nauseous and just so _sick_...

"Yes, well, your mind needs the transport to work. No body, no brain."

Sherlock sighed heavily. He didn't respond, although the pressure of John's hand quietly descended on his forehead. He wasn't sure why John was testing his temperature again- he'd just gotten the thermometer reading- but he didn't complain. John's hand was warm. Sherlock was freezing. He enjoyed John's hand on his forehead more than he would care to admit.

* * *

**This story literally floated further and further away... but I think I might have reeled it back in. Maybe. xD**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks!**


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